


The King and his Castle

by luulapants



Series: The Prince and the Pease [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Epilogue, Fluff, King Peter Hale, M/M, Nobility, Oral Sex, POV Peter Hale, Post-War, Royal Hales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26411986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luulapants/pseuds/luulapants
Summary: Epilogue to The Prince and the Pease, will not make sense without reading that first.The aftermath of the siege of Triskelion.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: The Prince and the Pease [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1919389
Comments: 26
Kudos: 216





	The King and his Castle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiniestawoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiniestawoo/gifts), [Shey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shey/gifts), [asarcasticwitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asarcasticwitch/gifts).



> The Prince and the Pease left off on an open ending, which I am told was a cruel, cruel thing to do! Well, I hope this epilogue makes up for it! This was requested by THREE different people as part of my 400 followers giveaway.

The chaos of war rang so loudly that it sometimes took days for the echos to fade. Inside Triskelion castle, servants and soldiers alike rushed with mortal urgency: no longer contending with the power of their enemies but now racing against the steady, relentless approach of death.

Peter, too, found himself in such a race.

The crowds parted for him as he charged through the corridors, still fully armored but for his helmet. The upper portion of his face, where his visor had covered it, stood out starkly pale compared to the grime and gore that sullied the lower. The plates of his armor rattled together as he sighted the doors to the grand hall and broke into a run.

“Where is he!” he demanded to the room at large.

Around him, soldiers lay across any and every surface available: beds, tables, even blankets and rugs on the stone floor. Some likely would not survive the night, perhaps not the hour. A St. Martin soldier with blood and froth on his lips, turned his empty eyes toward Peter.

 _To battle,_ he thought grimly. _To glory._

_To death._

Ice bloomed in Peter’s stomach as he imagined more familiar faces under that doomed expression.

“My king,” called a familiar voice, and the ice retreated.

Peter forgot all decorum as Deaton approached him, and enveloped him at once in a fierce hug. He was forced to relent it quickly, remembering the weight of his armor and the gory state of it. “Apologies,” he breathed, taking a step back.

“I’m glad to see you, as well,” Deaton assured him with a smile. He looked weary, leaner than he had been just weeks ago.

By the time Deaton and the Argentus army arrived, Peter’s own forces were in the thick of their second day battling, at sword and thirsting long enough that men had begun to drink blood. The Argentus mounted archers swept the field of the Eastfall forces, sending them either to their knees or retreating back through the city walls. Their cannons broke the tunnel gates soon after. Rebellion had started inside the city walls as soon as word of their assault reached the captive citizens of Triskelion. There were not two hours interceding Peter’s arrival at the inner walls and Prince Ennis’s surrender.

All of this was to say, he and Deaton had not so much as glimpsed one another since they parted ways in St. Martin.

“Stiles,” Peter said, pleading. “Where is he?”

Deaton nodded toward the stairway at the back of the hall. “The court physician has given him a private room and seen to him personally. It’s the third guest room on the right. I apologize, but I can’t take the time.”

“You’re needed here,” Peter agreed. He squeezed Deaton’s shoulder, then continued on his way up the stairs. He did not pause to knock at the third door, simply pushed it open to sooner rest his eyes on his lover, to assure himself of the rising of his chest.

Stiles lie against a great many pillows, bare chest bandaged and his left arm in a sling. A blanket covered him to the waist. “I’m fine,” he said at once. “It looks worse than it is.” His bruised face curled itself into a smile.

Peter shut the door behind him, his armor clattering as he came to the side of the bed and, with some effort under his own weight, knelt. “You look like you’ve been crushed half to death.”

“And you look like you haven’t even let the physicians look at you yet,” Stiles accused. “Get that damned armor off.”

He might have protested, but the weight which he had carried on the strength of desperation had become oppressive against his weary body, now that he knew Stiles was alright. Peter shifted his aching shoulders and grunted. “I’ll need to call a servant,” he realized.

Stiles waved an impatient hand at him. “Lean forward. Come on. I have one good hand. I’ll do the laces, you do the lifting.”

It probably would have been faster to call a servant, but the two of them managed, piece by piece, to rid Peter of his burden. The plates clattered heavily to the floor, staying where they fell. Peter shucked his soiled underclothes at once, cringing at the stink of himself. “I should wash up.”

“I’m not much better,” Stiles assured him. “They only cleaned where I was injured.” He carefully sat up higher against his pillows, looking across the room. “Bring the wash basin here,” he said. “You can get us both cleaned up.”

Peter did as he was told. Sitting on the bed with the bowl of water balanced carefully in his lap, he leaned forward and began to gently wipe over the bruises on Stiles’s face. “I thought I lost you,” he murmured. “I saw you fall.”

The battle had only just grown too thick for the horses, and Peter had taken to his flail, struggling to strike back the onslaught before they could gut his mount from under him. In the rush of bodies, he did not notice as Stiles drifted further from him. By the time he was able to spare a glance to the side, Stiles was several yards away and tumbling from his rearing horse.

“Sir Parrish got to me before long,” Stiles assured him, “and the horse only came down on my arm.” He looked toward the window, and Peter followed his gaze to see a bit of metal plating, twisted and dented. The arm plate, he realized. They likely had to wrest it off by force.

When he saw Stiles go down, Peter dismounted into a din of clashing metal, screams and roars, the moans of the wounded underfoot. The noise felt far away, though, like an echo heard down a long corridor. He took his flail to his left hand, sword in the right as he slashed and bashed his way through the crush of men around him, frantic as he tried to fight his way to Stiles.

The panic he felt then surged anew in his chest. He took Stiles’s uninjured – or less injured, for it too was bruised somewhat – right arm, and wiped it down carefully as the memory replayed.

“Peter,” Stiles whispered.

Peter could not bear to lift his gaze and look upon him.

“My love,” Stiles pressed, pulling his still-wet fingers from Peter’s grip and touching them to his filthy face. He tugged the cloth from Peter’s hands and stroked it over his cheeks, then down the length of his nose. “You look like you could weep.”

“I think I might,” Peter admitted, “if I were not so dried out.”

“You have not had a drink yet?” The gentle tone turned scolding. He swiped the cloth over Peter’s chin, then instructed, “Pass me the bowl. Go have a drink from the ewer.”

Peter glanced over his shoulder and saw a silver ewer on a table at the foot of the bed. Now that he had allowed himself to think of water, he could hardly put his mind to anything else.

As he glutted himself on fresh water, he watched Stiles drag the cloth over his neck and shoulders, one-handed. He skipped over his bandaged chest, moving down instead to his belly, where the water dripped in rivulets down to the blanket at his waist.

From experience, Peter knew that his body would go weak before too much longer. Battle infused a man with a vigor that carried on even after the fighting had ceased. For some, it left quickly. Others, like himself, stayed restless and lusty for hours afterward. For all, once the vigor left, it took the entirety of a man’s strength with it, sometimes for days.

His strength had not left him just yet, however, and he felt his interest stir as Stiles shifted the blanket lower.

“Wash my legs?” Stiles asked, eyes fixed shamelessly upon Peter’s arousal.

Peter set the ewer aside and stepped to the side of the bed, tugging the blanket the rest of the way down. Bruises scattered Stiles’s legs, but not as prominently as his upper half. He started at the feet, carefully drawing the cloth over the arch, the heel, between his toes. “I seem to recall a promise you made to me, not so long ago,” he said, not looking up from his task as he switched to the next foot.

“What’s that?”

“That, once we were secure at Triskelion, you would lounge about nude and available for my taking.” Peter glanced up with a smirk, seeing that Stiles’s arousal had stirred as well, despite his injury. “You are a man of your word, I find.” The cloth slid higher, curling around each calf, then up to the knee.

Stiles laughed. “I regret, I do not think I could survive being taken at this moment,” he groaned.

Peter slid the cloth higher still. “No?” he asked, gentle. He didn’t want to press if Stiles truly were too injured to proceed. He wiped one hip, then the next. “Not if I took you in my mouth?”

At last, the cloth slid over Stiles’s bollocks, then his cock. Stiles’s head fell back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut. “Oh,” he gasped. “ _That_ sort of taking. Yes, I think I’m well enough for that.” As Peter stroked more firmly, Stiles’s voice lifted in pitch and speed. “In fact, I think it may prove – hm! – prove beneficial. Improves the constitution. Stimulates the blood and all that. I don’t know, I’m not a healer, but – _ohhh._ ”

Peter had wrapped his lips around Stiles’s cock, dragging his tongue along the underside as he dipped his head lower.

At once, Stiles’s words went soft, mindless little gasps of encouragement and adoration. His good hand found the back of Peter’s head, fingers curling into his hair as he murmured, “You feel so good, my love. Please, please don’t tease me.”

He didn’t tease Stiles, nor did he tease himself, wrapping a firm hand around his own cock and stroking in time with the dips of his head. He did not think his lover would have the energy for much after this, and he wanted to come with his name on Stiles’s lips.

“Peter,” Stiles moaned, as if he had heard Peter’s silent hope, as if sensing the crest of his pleasure. His fingers tightened their grip, hips lifting feebly without adequate power behind the movements. “Peter,” he said again, and again. When he spilled over Peter’s tongue, he said it so softly, Peter could hardly hear it over his own low groan as he followed suit.

As Peter had suspected, when he lifted his head, he found Stiles fighting to keep his eyes open. He moved up the bed and pressed his lips to Stiles’s forehead. “Sleep, darling.”

“Will you stay?”

“As long as I can,” Peter assured him. “If I’m pulled away, I will come back as soon as I can.”

That seemed to settle Stiles. By the time Peter had gotten to his feet, carrying the dirty wash water with him, soft snores drifted up from the bed. Peter changed out the water, then finished cleaning himself. He only had a few minutes’ rest beside Stiles before a knock sounded on the door.

“Your highness,” Deaton said as he poked his head inside.

“Already?” Peter asked.

Deaton offered a soft, fond smile. “The burdens of kingship,” he replied.

* * *

  
  


Cora’s cry echoed down the corridor’s like a lark’s chirp, bright and clear. “Uncle Peter!”

She had grown more than Peter had expected since he left for Eastfall the previous winter. Cora looked almost a woman now, though still wild and boyish in a way that his father had despised and his sister had quietly encouraged.

Skirts held up in both hands, her long legs flew under them, carrying her down the corridor at a sprint. She released her skirts at the last moment as she collided bodily with Peter’s chest, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Peter grunted at the force of it, his aching muscles protesting, but he laughed and seized her in his arms all the same. Leaning back, he could just barely lift her off her feet. He set her down and pushed her back a step. “You’ve gotten taller,” he accused.

“And you’ve grown a beard,” she shot back. Then, tracing her fingers over his jaw, immediately added, “Or tried to anyway. The sides here are rather mangy.” She leaned closer to inspect.

He swatted her hands away with a huff. “I’ve been on a war campaign, so apologies if my grooming is not to your standards. Honestly, the way you greet your king!”

Cora only grinned at him, a bit madly.

“What?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I just missed you.”

“We all did,” came a firmer voice, much like Cora’s but with its youthful vigor and rebellion stripped away and replaced with practicality and caution.

Peter looked up to see his other niece walking toward them, Derek limping at her side. Laura had one hand wrapped around Derek’s elbow, either to aid him or simply to assure herself that he was there, alive. For, of course, she had suffered the same grief that Peter had, in those early days. Her grandfather, her mother, and her brother all dead in a single night. And she and her sister, trapped in the hands of their enemies. She was not yet twenty, but her eyes held the weariness of an older woman.

Stepping around Cora, Peter strode forward to meet them in the center of the corridor, sweeping Laura into an embrace which persisted for long moments, but not long enough. When they parted, Cora and Derek stood beside them, and Peter felt a wholeness he had not dared hope he would find again. Yet, at the same time, he could not ignore the empty space lingering with them.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, “for your mother.”

Derek wrapped an arm around Cora’s shoulders, and they both ducked their heads.

Laura kept her chin high, but pressed her lips tightly together, restrained. “She would be happy to see us together again,” she said. “She would be happy to see you on the throne.”

* * *

  
  


If ever a chair had the power to taunt, this one was taunting him. Peter stared at it from clear on the other end of the throne room, feeling as though, if he got any closer, it might try to capture him and force him to sit.

“I can’t,” he said.

Stiles stepped up beside him, placing his good hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You are more than prepared to rule,” he insisted. “Your people love you already.”

Deaton came to stand on his other side, sighing. “It’s not that,” he explained, eyes fixed ahead. “It’s the throne.”

The Hale throne had been carved nine generations prior. Over the years, through various treaties and conquests, it was inlaid with silver from Argentus, mother of pearl from St. Martin, and rubies from the far east. It carried the history of their kingdom from centuries before it became his father’s throne.

To Peter, though, it had never been anything else.

“I want it done away with,” Peter decided, “to represent a new era of the Hale dynasty. A fresh start.”

Deaton stared at him out of the corner of his eye, lips pursed. Finally, he said, “A fine idea, my king. However, I’m afraid we don’t have time to replace it before you need to hold audience today.”

Peter made a noise of frustration. “Get a dining chair, then!” he snapped. “I don’t care what I sit on!”

“ _They_ _will_ ,” Deaton insisted.

Stiles cleared his throat, and they both turned to look at him expectantly. His fingers twisted in the fabric of his sling as he looked around the throne room. “It occurs to me,” he said, “that while this room is quite grand in size, it does somewhat limit the attendance of today’s audience.” He took a few steps forward, turning to take in the full size of the room, with its high, vaulted ceilings and narrow proportions. “How does one choose who is worthy to attend?” he asked. “Surely, the generals and nobles, the court advisers.” He stopped, facing Peter and Deaton with a weary sort of smile. “What of the common soldiers injured in the fight, though? What of those who lost friends? What of the servants that staged insurrection against Prince Ennis and his men? Do they not also deserve to attend?”

Peter could not shake the feeling that he was being scolded, however gently the question was framed. He ducked his head, but Deaton was quick to jab him in the side for it. He needed to break the habit of showing deference in public. Peter lifted his chin and met Stiles’s eyes. “If we were to include every body who played a part in the liberation of Triskelion, they would number in the thousands. What do you suggest, then?”

Turning to face the tall stained glass windows along the eastern wall, Stiles said, “Outside. Take your audience on the steps of the keep, on your own two feet. You can keep the center courtyard for your usual guests, and the rest can stand farther out and on the balconies.”

Deaton cut in: “None are meant to stand above the king during an audience. Perhaps a balcony –”

“The steps,” Peter decided firmly, smiling at Stiles. “I’ll do it on the steps. Let the servants and injured men stand above me. They gave me back my home.”

* * *

  
  


There would be time, later, for domestic affairs. Peter would grant honors to soldiers who showed exceptional valor, grant knighthoods. Sirs Boyd, Erica, and Liam would be offered positions on his kingsguard. Deaton’s appointment to an advisorship would be made official. And, of course, he would give Stiles his new title.

Before then, he had the army of a newly autonomous territory to greet.

The Argentus foot soldiers wore black tunics under leathers and mail, all stern or expressionless as they filed into the courtyard. They moved to the edges, making room for the archers. It was odd to see the archers on foot. In battle, they had seemed one entity with their horses, keeping their mounts by the power of their legs alone even as the beasts leaped and reared. All the while, they drew and loosed arrows in smooth, sinuous movements. A superstitious man, seeing them from afar, might mistake them for centaurs.

Only one arrived on horseback: the general, who wore a finely polished breastplate and feathered helmet, both emblazoned with the Argentus _fleur de lis_.

“Lord Argent,” Peter greeted.

The general grasped the helmet in both hands and lifted, releasing a cascade of long, dark hair. “Lord Argent could not come,” she said. The woman’s features were, at once, delicate and severe. She passed her helmet to a soldier, then swung down off her horse to approach the steps. At the bottom of them, she swept low into a careful, graceful bow. “Your majesty.”

It took Peter a moment to realign himself to this revelation. He recovered by saying, “My apologies, Lady Allison, for my misunderstanding.” For this could be none other. Only an Argent would wear the royal seal. Lady Kate had married an eastern lord beyond the mountains, and Lady Victoria was much older than the youthful creature before him.

“I understand,” she said as she stood again. “In the mountains, we all learn to fight for our land. But Treskelion women do not so readily take to the sword – or bow, as it were.”

“A fact that may change,” Peter replied, “for we have our first knighted woman here in our midst.” He opened an arm in the direction of Sir Erica. “In honor of your invaluable service to our liberation, I hope it would not be improper to extend such an offer to your ladyship.”

Allison smiled at that. “Improper, no,” she said, “but unnecessary. To be the lady of an autonomous territory is a higher, more powerful station than knighthood.”

Right to the point, then.

Deaton had made some serious concessions regarding the rule of Argentus, returning with a treaty promised but yet unsigned by the Triskelion king. Argentus, in effect, was a subject of Triskelion in name only. They reserved the right to overrule new laws or taxation from Triskelion and would have a seat at the table in all war-making which involved Argentus soldiers. Argentus could determine the manner in which its taxes were paid, where Triskelion had once held the power to demand silver or iron or copper, depending on its current needs. In exchange, Argentus pledged fealty and alliance and gave primacy to Triskelion in trade negotiations. The last, Deaton had explained, was little more than his attempt to make the treaty less of a humiliation.

“As promised,” Peter said, nodding to Deaton, “I have signed the treaty in its entirety.”

Deaton stepped forward with the scroll in his hands, and passed it to Allison.

“I have heard great things about your father, Lady Allison,” Peter said. It was sort of true. At the very least, he had heard that Lord Christopher was better than his father. “Times of succession can be difficult. Violent. However, there are many of us who aspire to a higher standard than our forebears. Please tell your father that it is my sincere hope that we should maintain better relations than those of our fathers.”

She stared at him with a curious expression, her cheeks dimpling around a smile. So soft that he could barely hear, she said, “Scott did tell me you were different.”

Then Allison was stepping back, declaring in a louder voice so all could hear, “Your majesty, my people and I bid you farewell, but not for long. You and Lord Stiles will receive an invitation for my wedding before long, and I expect to see you there.”

“I would not dare disappoint,” Peter assured her.

* * *

  
  


Autumn had seized hold of Triskelion quite suddenly. Peter stood on the balcony of the king’s chambers – his chambers, he reminded himself. As the brisk air swept over his face, he could not help but recall the stifling heat of battle a week earlier, the sweat and humidity and suffocation of it, and lament that the cool weather had not struck sooner.

He had nearly kept his previous bedchambers, the ones he had occupied since early adolescence. The thought of moving to his father’s had left him uneasy, not only because of their former occupant but in the knowledge that he had been murdered there. Then Peter remembered that his own room had been taken for Prince Ennis, where he had no doubt plotted that same murder.

“Castles are full of ghosts,” he had conceded to Stiles as the servants refurnished the old king’s chambers for them. “The ghosts of kings, and most of them cruel. If I were to seek a refuge free of such histories, I should board a ship and sail west into the unknown. Even there, I suspect, I would find strange lands filled with familiar sorrows.”

Stiles then took his hand, leading him back to the main corridor, by which they could access any of the royal bedchambers. “In which did your sister give birth to her children?” Stiles asked. “In which did your nephew make his first steps or you nieces their first words?”

Careful of his lover’s injured arm, Peter had pushed him into a nearby alcove and kissed him until they had no breath left between them.

“The air’s gone cold,” Stiles said from the balcony doorway. He wrapped his good arm around Peter’s middle, hooked his chin over Peter’s shoulder so that his warm breath swept the side of his neck. “It is a relief, to see the heat go,” he murmured, “but a bit sad, too. The end of a thing. The end of summer.”

Peter stroked the back of Stiles’s hand, smiling out at the bustling castle life below them, beyond over the city walls to the terraced farms that adorned the hillsides. “A summer such as this is easier to let go than most,” he replied. Lacing their fingers together, Peter gave a gentle squeeze. “And, anyhow, I’ve already had its sweetest harvest.”

Stiles turned his face against Peter’s neck briefly, perhaps hiding a smile for when he lifted it again, he pressed a kiss to Peter’s cheek and chided, “Don’t be so romantic. I’ll have to bed you, and we’ll be late for dinner.”

Peter hummed. “What’s for dinner today?”

“Fish, I think.”

Peter closed his eyes and laughed. “Let’s be late.”


End file.
